


loved you first

by sadsparties



Series: hair rituals [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: First Kiss, Hair Brushing, Hair-pulling, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: “One day, just a week after we entered the Arctic Circle, I mistakenly received several crates of Tea and Sugar.” Captains Crozier and Fitzjames trade stories, some more revealing than others.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: hair rituals [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118939
Comments: 30
Kudos: 148





	loved you first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Readaholics_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/gifts).



If Francis Crozier is to imagine the many ways in which to make up for his past inadequacies to James Fitzjames, it will not include brushing his hair.

_“Keep count, would you? Forty strokes precisely.”_

_“Forty?” he repeats, incredulous._

_“To make it shiny!”_

And yet that is exactly how it has come to be, two months and three days since Rescue. Everyday, Francis loiters half an hour abovedecks to give James his privacy. The time is usually enough for James to complete his regimen, to stitch together a passable display of his old glory, but this morning he finds the man merely in his shirtsleeves, sulking at the bunk and glaring at the comb in his right hand.

Francis stares at the comb and archs his brow. James’s left arm is still in a sling, and will be for some time if he keeps overtaxing his other arm. Something of a conference occurs when their gazes meet, accompanied by pointed looks and stubborn frowns, which culminates in James wordlessly relinquishing the implement. Francis perches himself at James’s right and they both face towards the door, ready to make their excuses should it slide open of its own accord.

“I maintain that forty is excessive,” Francis says. 

Nevertheless, he parts James’s hair and sweeps the sections aside to expose the back of his neck. The open collar hides nothing, the jut where James’s spine begins an alluring, creamy white. “I hope you know,” Francis says as his knuckles inadvertently fleet over the exact spot, “that your charm will not be in any way diminished if your hair is as dull as a goat’s.”

James bristles in his seat and straightens. “That is very kind of you, Francis,” he says, “but get to it please.”

Francis grins and obeys. James’s hair has grown longer: from where it ended below his jaw, it now reaches his fine shoulder blades. Several strands have turned a light grey, causing James to grimace at what he called “damned cobwebs” on his head. Francis refrains from confiding that to him it looks like a lace veil.

He inspects the comb, a well-worn wooden thing with missing teeth, hardly a tool fit for a senior officer of the Royal Navy. He does not know whom of their rescuers James had contended with to obtain such a cheap trinket, but he suspects that it will explain the disappearance of one of their dinner knives. 

He begins brushing, taking great care with the tangles that have formed in some ends. Months of dust and sun have stiffened the strands, and the comb sings as it glides through. Francis recalls when James’s hair was luminous in the lamplight, wavy and soft-looking as James grew boisterous in his tales. Once, the man had presented himself in the Great Cabin after a shower of snow, his hair gone curly from the damp, and Francis could barely restrain himself from weaving his fingers through it, if only to confirm that it was as supple as it seemed. 

He had never fathomed that the opportunity would actually come, but he feels neither victorious nor sated. 

When Francis reaches the fifth stroke, James positively _mewls_. The sound makes him pause and look over James’s shoulder.

“Are you well, James?”

“Hmm, what? Oh... yes…”

“You are free to _purr_ should you feel so inclined.”

This earns him a backhand on the shoulder.

  
  
  


Later, when Francis’s count has gone well past 40, he asks James to tell a story. “I promise not to grouse,” he says, “even if I've heard it already.” In truth, James can go on his twentieth retelling of an old adventure and Francis will pay it no mind. It is not his anecdotes that Francis has an aching for, though he treasures those, now. James telling a story is James at his happiest, and Francis will be his willing audience. 

The minute trickles by as James hums in consideration, no doubt going through his numerous accounts of valour. Francis does not goad further, relishing the moment all the more for its fleetingness. With a private smile, he likens himself to his mother at her first-born’s wedding day. She had poked and prodded at George’s hair as they sat in front of the vanity, as if her henning could extend the hour before she would have to give him away. “He isn’t going to get any prettier, mam,” his younger self had whined from the settee, to which George had clapped back: “Just you wait, Frankie. When it’s your turn I’ll shave your brows clear off.”. 

Francis is so lost in the memory that he almost misses it when James speaks: “One day, just a week after we entered the Arctic Circle, I mistakenly received several crates of Tea and Sugar.” 

Francis’s arm falters mid-stroke. Can it be...

“We’d been ferrying stores from the _Baretto Junior_ into the orlop for the past two days, and I was on deck conferring with the Master on a matter regarding our sails when a boat-worth of tea bricks was pulled up.”

Francis can practically hear the grin in his voice.

“Now I hadn’t been tasked with outfitting the ships, so I was more than pleased to see that we were to be stocked with Fortnum & Mason’s, my favorite as it were. I signed the acknowledgment form and the matter dropped from my mind completely... until a full week later when we dined at our sister ship and its Captain grumbled about missing tea and sugar.”

At this, Francis huffs and disarranges a few strands of James’s hair. He combs them back in place, albeit this time with more pressure than necessary. “Go on,” he says, but instead James fully turns to him, sporting a wide grin.

“I wanted to bring it up truly, confess my error and offer to return the supplies, but this Captain seemed determined to be uncharitable. You may be sure that this perplexed me as all I ever did was attempt to be better friends with him.”

Without looking away, Francis nudges his boot to James’s, and together they snicker like two midshipmen who have conned their way to the quarterdeck. He has missed this, this bubble of easy camaraderie. It last formed on their trek from Victory Point, when James had bragged about being the best walker in the Service. No tales of errant fathers and unknown mothers will intrude on their peace now.

Then James lowers his eyes. He starts plucking at the linens, sheepish.

“Later that night, Sir John disclosed to us his official orders, and I saw how dismayed you were when he assigned me to the Mag. I’d been told early on, trained with Sabine even”—he meets Francis’s stare—“but I’m not the scientist you are, Francis, never will be. These past few years I’ve been of two minds if I ought to tender you my apologies, or if you’ll even appreciate it, or if the strength of my regard for you is contingent solely on guilt—”

“James—”

“—but I do know that I want you to like me.” James’s hand grips the sheets, bracing for something. “I want you to like me _very much._ ” 

His gaze pins Francis in his seat, eyes steady, filled with sincerity, and something else that Francis has seen all too often in himself in the past, something like _hope._

He blinks, astonished. Ah.

Vaguely, Francis remembers waking up in a hammock this morning to the lulling sound of James’s light snore. Francis had let his feet on the floor, cursed his aged bones for their frailty, and tried to dress as he bumped his hip to every corner. Never had he considered that his early grumbling would lead to this zenith. There are no Articles for this, for having one’s most absurd dream, long stifled until its howl is barely a sigh, be suddenly within grasp. 

He glances at James’s hand clenching the bedding and recognizes it for what it is: a bridge ripe for the crossing, if only he would take it. A phrase comes to him then, words he had issued in warning and been casually rebuffed. They ring in his ears as clear and true as a minister’s call: _go, go for broke._

First, he lets go of the comb, drops it somewhere on the bed. Then he reaches out and pries James’s hand from the sheets. Their fingers entwine in an instant, as tight as when they had clung to each other when James was at his worst. Francis runs his thumb over James’s knuckles, hardened and swollen by the haul and all the more beautiful. Silver, he thinks, smiles, with a stone worth half his pension.

“Do you recall the first time we had tea together?” Francis says. James furrows his brow as he muses. “Surely before the ships set sail?”

Francis shakes his head. What had James called it? _A dramatic opening shot._ “One day, just a few hours after we entered the Arctic Circle, I delayed an expedition so a man might visit my Cabin.” 

James’s eyes widen, incredulous.

“We were at Disko Bay, and the Ice Master of the flagship insisted on leading us to the anchorage in the opposite direction. I realized it immediately but I didn’t signal the Captain, and we ended up wasting a full day’s sailing. I didn’t like him much, this Captain.” Francis gives a quick squeeze. “I let him blunder to prove him the inferior navigator, and I knew he’d call me out eventually. I was counting on it.

“But when he—when you went aboard later, to Terror,” Francis’s expression turns sour, “you were so embarrassed by the whole thing that I completely forgot myself. I’d thought to lord my mastery over you, but it was clear that you were greatly upset and it clawed at my innards.”

“Francis—”

“I was caught so offguard that Jopson had to speak up and offer the tea, and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about dip circles, of all things.” Francis gives a small smile and takes a deep breath. Here it is now, here it comes. “But all I wanted to do”—he lifts James’s hand—“all throughout dinner”—and presses his lips to it. 

Francis feels the pull of his braces on his trousers as he bows his head.

He thinks he hears James gasp.

He pours all the things he has yet to say into the kiss, everything he regrets, and everything he vows. This is his best and probably only chance. Should James not allow this to progress further, then he will be content. 

“Francis…”

Finally, he lifts his head. A single tear streaks down James’s face. “Ever since?”

A lock of grey hair has plastered to James’s forehead. Francis brushes it gently and tucks it behind his ear. He runs his thumb over James’s cheek, smears the tear away. “James... I’m a fool...”

The kiss, when it comes, is damnably short-lived. James surges forward and showers him with kisses, pools of wet warmth pressed and gone before he could make head or tail of it. James kisses him on his lips, his chin, his nose, whimpering all the while. Francis cradles his jaw to steady him, and their mouths open to each other like long-lost lovers. Francis sighs into it, relief and gratitude rolled into one breath. He laces his fingers with James’s hair, rests his palm at the back of James’s head, and _clenches._

James keens as the ship's bell rings for breakfast. Francis can imagine no finer sound.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:  
> 
> 
>   * What is proper physio? I don’t Know, I just want Francis to brush James’s hair!
>   * Is a Victorian wedding band worth half a navy captain’s pension? *shrugs*
>   * There is a Bridget Jones reference here, if you care to find it. And a Peaky Blinders reference.
> 

> 
> Some historical notes in case this is your thing:  
> 
> 
>   * Fortnum & Mason's did deliver Crozier’s Tea and Sugar (capitalized) to Erebus. But this was before the ships sailed. It was never in their supply ship _Baretto Junior_.
>   * The Admiralty did assign to Fitzjames the supervision of magnetic observations, something that Crozier was licherally elected to a (white) gentleman’s club for.
>   * The ships did waste a day sailing towards the wrong anchorage. FRMC claimed “ehhh i thought u just changed ur mind so i followed ur lead uwu”. M. Smith says that Fitzjames was properly furious, while W. Battersby claims that he rowed over to Terror simply to consult on magnetic instruments. iLove historian catfights.
>   * The known Crozier children are: FRMC, Thomas, William, Charlotte, and Rach(a)el. There are eight remaining unnamed Croziers. One of them ought to have been named after their dad George
> 



End file.
